


If she had been the Mistletoe

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Gifts, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 19:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7697584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary asks a simple question, Jed answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If she had been the Mistletoe

“All I ask is that you consider it, then,” Mary finished. 

They were alone in the high-ceilinged room the officers used as a dining room and private parlor. It was very dark, the deep, sinking shadow that December brought, that many lamps could barely dispel. Henry had gone to check on an ill boy but had said he would return so they could take up their chess match again; he had some fantasy his gambit, a corruption of the Bishop’s opening, was going to be successful. Jed was enjoying lounging a bit, perusing a somewhat controversial paper Jules had sent in his most recent, precious crate from Paris, along with the set of gold-plated scalpels he’d promised and some curiously finished lens he’d gotten from Bonn when his brother Michel had travelled there for business. The coffee cup Jed had emptied sat on the rosewood table before him and Mary had ostensibly come round with her tray to collect it and the other scattered crockery the officers had left, but it hadn’t been her true motive.

She hadn’t sat down across from him and certainly not beside him; he’d never known what it was like to have Nurse Mary, still occasionally the Baroness when the situation called for it, tucked up next to him, resting her head against his shoulder, her fine green Morocco slippers left on the oak floor and her stockinged feet peeping from her voluminous skirts. He’d never known it but oh, how he wished it! To lean over to take her hand in both of his or to stroke a deliberate finger along her cheek-- to feel her press even closer as the shadows gathered all the remaining light in the room from the corners. Only the fire in the hearth would be there to throw back its golden light upon her face and into her warm, dark eyes. To be together, quiet, and know she understood him and understanding, still loved him, was something he’d never had and supposed he never would.

No, she stood before him though she had acceded when he gestured for her to set down the tray so that she didn’t wait before him like a housemaid, missing only her white cap and trailing ribbons. He’d listened attentively as she talked about her plan for a musical evening to celebrate the Christmas holiday. This was in addition to the small gifts, “just handkerchiefs and the like,” she and Miss Green had been preparing, with no help it seemed from the younger Miss Alice who swanned about Mansion House looking for a tableau to pose in. He’d heard rumors about her but he couldn’t believe she was capable of actual espionage when she simpered so obviously. She was all tossing blonde curls and flounces but he wondered if she were jealous of her sister’s clear blue eyes; Alice’s were a golden hazel, a little feline, and too hard and flat for a sixteen year old. The elder Miss Green had been quite convinced that her parents would agree to lend their piano so that Mary and Emma could accompany anyone who agreed to sing hymns or carols. And Mary was sure she could put together a more impressive meal than usual, “more a cold collation, I think, but it should be a treat for the boys. And perhaps Steward will help get the ingredients for a real Christmas pudding or gingerbread. I shall have to ask him very nicely.”

That had been her segue to ask him, very nicely, if he would agree to sing with Hale and Henry, a selection of Christmas carols with piano accompaniment. He must have looked properly flabbergasted, because she paused only a little before explaining, quite earnestly, why she thought it would a good idea for the patients to be entertained by the same men who hacked them to pieces, albeit with a bit more discretion than their enemies. After the initial shock, he began to enjoy himself; she was such an unusual woman, could alternate so easily and quickly between determined solemnity and a gentle, wry wit, and neither approach was ever in service of her own ends, but only ever to help another. 

He’d known devout, humorless good women who made a life of good works, in Baltimore and when he’d studied in New York and Boston. And he’d met Parisiennes who were mercurial, brilliant, erudite and amusing, who moved languidly through salons in richly embroidered silks. Their collective bared décolletage was so familiar to their countrymen that the Frenchmen were never as distracted as Jed could be by such a display of lovely flesh coupled with their elegantly arousing speeches. But Mary was unique in his experience, entirely focused on doing good but able to laugh—at herself, at him, at the foibles of the men, and then to still be stricken when someone suffered. He thought she didn’t laugh enough, but there was little enough reason now and in her past. This plan of hers, this musical night which she hurried to explain would also include recitations and dramatic set-pieces if enough staff or soldiers were willing to participate, was so like a family party, a church social, such domestic normality that she would quickly trim with mistletoe and holly to persuade the men it could suffice for their Christmas spent in a military hospital. How thoughtfully and kindly she cared for the boys and the staff too, and so he had decided, nearly right away, that he would consent to join Hale and Henry in a trio but he did not mean to let her know that so quickly. He wanted to see how long he might spin it out, what she might say in the interim to try and induce him to sing. 

“But why not McBurney? He’s the chief medical officer, surely he ought to be serenading his hospital,” he said first. 

Jed thought Clayton would be eager to be a member of a quartet, proud to stand before his staff and his patients, confident and benevolent in equal measure. He made a fine figure in full uniform, everything glinting that ought to be, his sharp blue eyes, his brass buttons. He did like the man, not quite as much as Henry, but the Army hierarchy made a barrier and McBurney was another career man, though far more agreeable than Hale.

“Oh, well. I did ask and Captain McBurney was so kind and agreed so quickly and just burst into song and—oh, Jed, he was simply terrible! Rather, he was, he was flat and so loud and he can’t carry the melody at all… I couldn’t help how I looked, my expression, and he burst out laughing! He said he thought he would try but he could see that his voice hadn’t improved with time or a rest, and he’d just as soon recite to the boys. He’s going to read selections from A Christmas Carol instead and maybe some Bible verses. He was so gracious about it, but truly, if you’d heard him, I don’t think you could have managed any better,” Mary explained, wrinkling her nose a little unconsciously as she recalled McBurney’s alleged caterwauling. She suddenly looked much younger, like the girl she had once been who must have run about her family’s farm with her dark braids flying, her face round-cheeked. He blinked and the image passed and an entirely grown-up Head Nurse was before him, awaiting his response patiently.

“I see. You said Chaplain Hopkins and Dr. Hale were singing—why is a duo insufficient? Must we dress as the three wise men and carry whatever Alexandria may supply for frankincense and myrrh?” he teased.

“Jedediah! I cannot even correct you for I am asking a favor!” she declared, smiling ruefully. “Dr. Hale and Mr. Hopkins are both tenors and I thought it would be a more pleasing performance if you added your voice to theirs—I know you are a baritone and as we must forgo a bass, altogether…”

“However do you know that? What part I sing?” he asked.

“You, I—I listen, well, when the surgery has gone well, you mayn’t notice, but sometimes you sing to yourself afterwards…I like it, to hear you happy,” she admitted. He was embarrassed but he saw she was looking upon him fondly and the blush receded before it had done more than warm his cheeks.

“Shall you be singing then as well? A carol, perhaps, or a hymn?” Jed asked. It would be like her to organize the event, prepare the meal, all the little gifts and still take part in multiple performances—and she would brush off any praise or gratitude from the staff or the men at the end, that he was sure of.

“Oh no, no one need listen to me sing. I readily admit I have only a little voice, very ordinary… perhaps in a group, I may not distract anyone, I can keep to the melody, but that is all,” she replied, forthright, without the least hesitation. 

There was not any sense that she was seeking his contradiction as his sister or wife would have done, looking for an extravagant compliment. He didn’t agree though; he remembered her singing to him when he was ill, when the lack of the needle was worse than he could have imagined, such visions and distortions, that sharp ache skittering unpredictably, repulsively, across his skin like a spider’s legs… then her voice had been low, soft and sweet, a woman’s voice, not a young girl’s. She’d sung for hours one night, until he finally slept a little, her hand cool, stroking through his damp curls. He had wanted to press his face into the cradle of her lap but he couldn’t, he mustn’t so he turned away instead but still she sat beside him and sang hymns and old Scottish airs. He’d heard the echo of the hours in her slightly hoarse voice when she visited him the next morning, but she just smiled and offered him a cup of tea and some bread daubed scantily with jam “that you might try and see if you can manage to keep down today.”

“I don’t agree, Mary. I’ve heard you sing and you have a lovely voice… every note is true,” he said. She might accept that, if he said little and didn’t embellish.

“Oh, well, I suppose, perhaps for the sickroom or the rocking chair. My nephews liked it well enough when I sang to them,” she replied. He could see her in a rocking chair, gently holding a swaddled baby in her arms; her contralto was made for lullabies and lovers, not a stage with a shawl-draped piano and rows of mismatched chairs, crowded with men.

“I will bargain with you then, I will sing with Hale and Hopkins, though I refuse to stand right beside Hale, Christmas spirit notwithstanding, if you will sing. Maybe with Miss Green? I don’t imagine Nurse Hastings would want to share her applause with anyone,” he said. Jed was asking her to do more, but he couldn’t resist; he told himelf the men would want to hear her, together with Emma, their two fair faces angelic in candlelight.

“I will agree to that,” Mary laughed. “You are prescient—Nurse Hastings did allow she would perform but only as a soloist and only English carols. I didn’t like to argue with her and “The Holly and the Ivy” is such a pretty piece, I didn’t wish to put her off singing it by requesting it. I am sure Emma will be willing to join me. I was only going to read from Luke, I still may.”

She was bending down now to pick up the tray and return to the endless round of chores she did in the evenings before she walked through the wards as the men settled to sleep. He did not want her to go and tried to think of what he could say to keep her standing there, smiling at him and talking about something other than injuries and deprivation, those obvious topics she would always turn to first.

“Mary, what, I wondered—what is your favorite carol?” Jed said, wincing a little at how the question sounded, how blunt and transparent. He had meant to tease, to draw her out and now he was just as he had been as a young boy at his first ball, nearly wordless, yet without any excuse this time.

“Oh, I didn’t think you’d—I, my favorite, I suppose ‘Silent Night.’ You know, ‘all is calm, all is bright.’ It always reminds me of Christmas when I was a little girl, how the snow on the fields made a sort of day of the night. It never gets truly dark after a snowfall at home, the light is… altered. It’s very beautiful, I think. Oh my, the time, it’s so late… I really must go, Jed, there is so much to be done and I did want to look in on poor Private Baird, he’s worse today.”

She took up the tray and he knew he could not dissuade her again, not for long. He thought Baird would be unlikely to survive until the party she planned and that the soldier might as well hear Mary sing to him tonight. Still, Jed knew he himself was a greedy man and he would take a little more if he could.

“Then, we will-- I will sing that for you,” he said softly but firmly. 

It startled her and he liked to see her surprise, the way she colored a little at receiving even the smallest gift. Jed thought of how elaborate the holiday festivities had been in his childhood, the lavish table Eliza would set, Cousin Delia’s penchant for a dress festooned with gilt lace, the presents gaily wrapped; Mary’s brown eyes were as bright as stars with his meager offering. He knew she’d sing her own carol in a dark dress, only the tips of her green slippers merry for the season unless he managed to find a sprig of holly and left it tied with some red ribbon for her. There was a War on, but the Union still held and he felt certain there was a bit of holly left in Virginia for Christmas for such a sweet, dear woman.

**Author's Note:**

> This was for a prompt ultrahotpink made "All I ask" and since it's August in the northern hemisphere, of course I decided to write a Christmas story. I have embedded into fanon that Hale is a great singer as we know the actor playing him is and I do hope we get a chance to hear him. I hope the story is as fun as a sugarplum even if it is out of season.
> 
> Silent Night was a popular carol by the mid-19th century and familiar in both English and German; Mary refrains (!) from adding this when she tells Jed.
> 
> The title, Emily Dickinson, lather, rinse, repeat.


End file.
